


Silent Devotion

by Nenalata



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Church Sex, Coming Untouched, Established Relationship, F/M, Face-Sitting, Femdom, Glove Kink, Light Dom/sub, Married Couple, Naked Male Clothed Female, Oral Sex, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Canon, Quiet Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Voice Kink, Woman on Top, casual blasphemy, she's wearing her undershirt but still, this fic has probably the most dirty tags in a fic i've written as of now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26038069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nenalata/pseuds/Nenalata
Summary: Nails on his scalp, fingers in his hair. Shamir brought him closer, closer, resting her forehead against his without removing her glove from his lips or her hand from his head. Torchlight glimmered in her dark irises, burning him with their intensity. She spoke against his mouth, not near enough to kiss her but near enough to torture him: “I’m the only one who gets to hear you like this. Understand?”
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Shamir Nevrand
Comments: 8
Kudos: 76
Collections: Honest Reasons to Fight





	Silent Devotion

**Author's Note:**

> This was a super, duper exciting anonymous prompt from someone who did not realize I have been wanting to write this smut premise for like. Months and months and months. I have so much gratitude for their trust in me...and for the wish fulfillment, hohoho! I hope you all enjoy!!!!
> 
> (also, if you're wondering why it's in the Honest Reasons to Fight collection... every time you see M!Bymir in my work? It's that universe. Hope you enjoy knowing that, if you follow that series)

“You’re chattier lately.”

Still studying the map on the cardinal room table, Byleth flicked his gaze to Shamir standing vigilant at his side. Maybe not enough ‘casual glance’ and maybe too much ‘side-eye,’ but he’d deal with any potential repercussions for rudeness some other time.

A mocking tint colored the edges of her smirk.

Yes. There were repercussions in his future.

“Is that a problem?”

“Not really,” Shamir said. “I like hearing your voice.”

For all that Byleth could admit to his increased _chattiness_ , in an instant, Shamir’s all-too-innocent sentence destroyed years of progress as he promptly forgot what even the word ‘ _word_ ’ meant. The faded map of pre-Kleiman Duscur suddenly became ten times more interesting. Fortunately, the voice she claimed she liked did not completely fail him: he hummed to acknowledge her—certainly not to tease her with the sound, of course not—and bent over the table to hide his reddening face.

“Exactly. I like hearing your voice just like that.”

He swallowed, certain the sound was audible, certain it had echoed in this tapestry-plastered room. “I need to focus,” he said, but his voice cracked on the word _need_ and Shamir’s breathy laugh tickled his ear before he could divinely pulse his pride back to normal.

 _Goddess_.

When had she crept so close?

“Yeah, probably,” Shamir murmured against the shell of his ear, her lips brushing the wisps of hair framing the curve, and the map, this was Duscur, this was work, he was _working_ and the door was open because Byleth was the Archbishop and the Archbishop was the Church and the Holy Kingdom needed the Church and the Holy Kingdom needed Duscur, but _Byleth_ needed Shamir and his voice could only _moan_ when she took his earlobe between her teeth and lashed her tongue across the velvety skin.

Her gloved hand slapped over his mouth the second the sound left his throat. “Like I said,” she whispered. “You’re chatty. And I like hearing your voice.”

One thumb stroked his bottom lip and slipped inside when he obediently opened his mouth. Byleth moaned again, the taste of worn black leather on his tongue heady as ambrosia, and Shamir, _damn her_ , pulled away. Her thumb from his mouth, her chest from his back, her body from his.

His sweat scorched his skin under his ornamental robes even as her vanishing touch left him cold. But he stayed hunched over the table, refusing to turn his head, much as his eyes wanted to drink in whatever delicious and smug expression she was fixing on him. If he searched for her, it meant she’d won. And Byleth was _Archbishop_ , someone _powerful_.

“I love hearing your voice too,” he said as evenly as his fraying nerves could allow, “but it’s distracting me right now, and you know it.”

She won. He turned around, and yes, Shamir made no attempt to hide the way her gaze raked his form, legs, hips, chest, face, smirking and triumphant and smug and _delicious_.

“If you want to hear my voice more,” Byleth continued with a confidence he almost believed, “you need to wait for me to finish for the day.”

“True,” Shamir agreed, straightening up into ‘professional bodyguard pose’ again. Byleth sighed and shook his head, but before he could covertly adjust his robes while turning back to his work, she purred, “but now that you’ve wasted so much time _chatting_ … Later, I should find a better use for your mouth.”

Byleth stumbled mid-pirouette and slammed face-first onto the table, showering the sole surviving map of ninth-century Duscur with blood from his broken nose. Shamir cursed, she lunged to grab him, Byleth’s world shimmered and warped and reversed, and—

“Later, I should find a better use for your mouth.”

Unfortunately for Byleth’s pride, hearing the sentence three more divinely pulsed times did not make his cock ache any less, but on the fifth try, at least the priceless artifact on the centuries-old war table was saved from the Church’s final—albeit unintentional—attack on Duscur.

* * *

Byleth Eisner, Archbishop of the Church of Seiros, former Professor of the Garreg Mach Officers Academy Blue Lions House, infamous ex-merc “The Ashen Demon,” Vessel of the Progenitor Goddess Sothis, had been bestowed with many unasked-for titles in his life.

It didn’t bother him. He had other problems to face than inconsequential matters like ambitions and desires, and no one seemed capable of handling those problems other than him. Byleth was one with a deity. Byleth was a terror on the battlefield, his sword a personal invitation to hell whether the bloodstained blade he wielded was rusted iron or holy Relic. Byleth was the Professor everyone wanted and trusted and loved yet no one could ever pin down. Byleth was one not only with a deity but with Her entire faith and flock.

Byleth’s words were commands, not suggestions, whether he meant them to be or not. The titles he’d never requested lent him power the world needed from him. And whatever expressions he tried to convey through his eyes and smiles and frowns were the only parts of his body who refused to convey that power. He’d known since he was a child and had learned the words _unsettling_ and _creepy_ and _inhuman_ , learned how they felt in his mouth, in his ears, in his heart. It was easier not to care. If his body betrayed him, at least it could serve deadly purposes for others. Whatever he felt inside meant little in the face of cruel bandits or corrupt and corrupted Emperors.

“It’s not fair to compare you to my first love,” Shamir had repeated over drinks shortly before they’d marched to Enbarr. Drinking together, but not drunk together. So Byleth had known she meant it as she’d continued, “It’s not your face, the way you talk like him, look like him… You don’t look like him. Or even act like him. You just…”

And she’d hid behind her tankard, uncharacteristically shy when it came to _emotions_ , terrible at expressing them just like him, even though she hadn’t spent her teenage years sulking in a thin tent and wishing she could.

Byleth had reached over to push the tankard away from her face until it clanked onto the dining hall table. His bare, callused hand trapped her gloved one, palm on her tense knuckles. He’d smiled, because her face was red as the sunset and flushed redder still when she caught the slight tilt of his lips.

“I just what, Shamir?”

Even beneath her pretty blush, Shamir had glared hard enough he’d _shivered_. And she’d noticed, because she always _noticed_ him, and she must have noticed his epiphany too: her voice rang clear and confident as a bell when she said, “You just look and act like someone I could love. You’re someone I do love. You… everything about you reminds me how it feels to fall in love. And don’t make me say it again; we’ve embarrassed ourselves enough for one night.”

Any light teasing he’d planned had fallen to pieces from the softness of her voice and heat of her gaze. She’d withdrawn from his loose grasp only to rest her palm on top of his and squeeze, swinging their clasped hands beneath the table to rest on his thigh.

“I love you,” Byleth had remembered to say.

“Hm.” Shamir squeezed his hand again, a silent command to drop the subject, emphasized by the slow drag of her gloved thumbnail over his ungloved knuckles back and forth and back and forth.

They’d been sitting side by side.

And Byleth’s body had always betrayed him.

“Let’s go to your room,” Shamir had whispered over the raucous din of the dining hall. “I guess _that’s_ something else I should feel, right?”

“What, feel my uniquely embarrassing love?”

Lightning-quick and lightning-hot, Shamir slid their joined hands over the unsubtle bulge between his legs and pressed _down_.

“Sure,” Shamir smirked as Byleth’s teeth sank into his lower lip to stifle a groan. “Whatever your gods-blessed heart desires. But make sure I can really _feel_ that love. Understood?”

And for once, his body serving someone’s purpose was exactly Byleth’s desire.

* * *

“Where are you going?”

Shamir’s flat, disapproving voice halted Byleth in his tracks, his left boot already planted on the first step to the third floor. To the Archbishop’s quarters. To _their_ quarters. Yes, she’d been tormenting him the entire afternoon with comments and touches and, well, existence, but that tone did not really scream ‘matrimonial seduction’ or something pleasantly similar. He leaned against the stairwell arch, frowning. “Where do you think I’m going?”

“Where do _you_ think you’re going? It’s Saint Macuil Day.” Had he imagined it, or had the corner of Shamir’s mouth just twitched? But the disapproval still rolled off her shoulders as she sighed. “Why do _I_ know the Church of Seiros’s most important holidays better than its Archbishop?”

“It is indeed odd,” Byleth agreed, managing to contain his frustration. “I don’t… have to attend, right? The bishops always ran it fine while Rhea recovered, so…”

“What, you have more important plans for the night?”

Yes, she _was_ smiling. Byleth pushed himself off the stairwell entrance and slipped his arms around her waist, pleased when she tangled her fingers in his hair and pressed his head against her neck until he could nip a sensitive spot below her ear. “I might,” he breathed, trailing gentle kisses down the underside of her jaw. Her pulse jumped when he grazed his teeth over her neck, nibbling down and down, tonguing her neck under her too-elaborate necklace. How fast could he make her heart race? How hard could he feel it pound if his teeth and tongue licked and bit down her cleavage, his face buried between her breasts and against her heart?

Shamir’s breathing sped up when his kisses did, his teeth dragging against her collarbone and his mouth sucking unapologetic bruises inch by inch to her neckline. Her breath hitched almost like a moan when he dipped his tongue between her breasts to taste her sweat, and _fuck_ he was hard in the middle of the second floor, next to the first-floor stairwell where anyone could walk up. But Byleth was Archbishop and Shamir was his wife and this monastery was their _home_ and the idea of someone stumbling upon the two of them here, even just touching and kissing like this, someone seeing—him, his body and his touch and _him_ making Shamir shake and gasp like he was a religion only she could worship…

“ _Goddess_ ,” Byleth groaned. And this time, he didn’t imagine the echo.

Shamir wasted no time ruining his cheerful fantasy. Her fingers dug into his hair and she yanked his head away from her breasts and up to meet her gaze. The sting of her nails in his scalp startled him enough he could only yelp in protest, but even that was apparently the wrong move: once again, her gloved hand shoved against his mouth shut him up, kept their pocket of solitude silent and safe.

Shamir’s smile, however, was positively dangerous.

“You’re more talkative than normal,” she observed. Her hand shoved against his mouth harder, like she could sense him about to object. “And louder.”

Byleth huffed a laugh against her palm. First she distracted him all afternoon by teasing him about how much she liked to hear his voice, liked to hear it _just like that_. Now it was too much?

“I know I said I liked hearing you,” Shamir continued conversationally, as if he’d spoken aloud, “but hearing you like this?”

Nails on his scalp, fingers in his hair. Shamir brought him closer, closer, resting her forehead against his without removing her glove from his lips or her hand from his head. Torchlight glimmered in her dark irises, burning him with their intensity. She spoke against his mouth, not near enough to kiss her but near enough to torture him: “I’m the only one who gets to hear you like this. Understand?”

Her fingers slipped over his lips, uncaring about the spit-slick leather she slid along his chin. Byleth swallowed; her slender fingers traced the movement down his throat. Every second, every ungentle scrape of beaten leather on his skin sent heat flaring through his gut, between his legs, and _Goddess_ he wanted to be between hers, face or fingers or cock, but if she’d only let him _move_ …

Shamir pressed her fingers against the side of his neck, harder than before. Only for a second, but Byleth still jerked in her uncompromising grip. “Understand?” she repeated. Her grip tightened, keeping him from nodding.

She wanted to hear his voice. _Of course_.

“Understood,” he complied.

Satisfied, Shamir tugged her fingers free of his hair, and it took every ounce of discipline Byleth possessed not to yank her flush against his body again. The Archbishop had responsibilities. The Archbishop had Saint Macuil Day to attend.

“All I really have to do is make an appearance at the ceremony,” he mumbled to himself. “I’ll just… spend the hymns portion in a prayer booth.”

“Quite the ascetic.”

The dejected and neglected too-slowly-softening dick in his pants begged to differ, but as they descended the stairs in silence, it became easier to ignore.

* * *

The bright-eyed faithful greeted the Archbishop as he and his partner entered the main cathedral. They rose to their feet like he was the religious icon, not the elaborate statues by three unappreciated bishops standing under stained glass windows.

Byleth wanted to go home.

But he smiled as best he could, his worshipers smiled back, and Archbishop Byleth genuflected in front of the statues of the Four Saints like he felt they were figures worth believing in.

Shamir’s presence at his side, however, dimmed the shimmer of Their gold-plated idols. Shamir radiated power where somehow Saints did not.

And now, thanks to his own power, Byleth was _done_ with this holiday. He nodded at the bishops, then again at the churchgoers with his fist over his heart, and headed for the private prayer cells with a different sort of worship in mind.

No whisper of footsteps followed him as the bishops’ monotoned prayers began, but judging by the way every strand of hair on the nape of Byleth’s neck stuck on end, he knew Shamir was not far behind. Just off to the side of the main sanctuary, close to the Holy Mausoleum, three individual prayer booths nestled into its own stone alcove. He couldn’t say he was surprised when the booth door took longer to close behind him than if he’d been alone, nor surprised when Shamir rested her head on his shoulder and stroked the dips of his hips with her thumbs. Byleth sighed, relaxing into her embrace.

“Quiet,” Shamir breathed. Soft lips curved into a smile against his neck. “You’re supposed to be praying, remember?”

“I am.” Byleth trailed his hands down his own chest, stomach, waist until he could cover her fingers with his own. She let him drag their hands back up his body, button by button popping free under her trapped, dexterous fingertips. Trying and failing to appear unaffected by the leather grazing his newly-bared skin, Byleth pushed their joined hands together just above his heart. “Dear Goddess,” he mumbled, loud as a shout, “please let me take my beautiful partner back to our home, not here, and _fuck her senseless_ —”

He and his nipples absolutely deserved those sudden, unsympathetic, leatherclad _pinches_. And he probably deserved the hand clapped over his mouth, almost between his teeth to silence the moan he hardly knew was coming. But Byleth felt he didn’t quite deserve to be bent over the small altar, Shamir’s hand pressed against his back, hear her delighted little laugh right in his ear and _still_ not be able to see her face.

“Doesn’t seem like the Goddess feels like answering your prayers right now,” Shamir mused. Her hands released him as quickly as they’d latched on, only to slide torturous teases down his body and straight to the clasps of his pants. “Good thing I can probably answer a couple other ones, though.”

Byleth had no adequate response save to clutch the altar, fingernails digging new grooves into the polished wood. Distant voices chanting hymns tried to penetrate the thick walls of this prayer cell, but Shamir’s fingers making quick work of his pants and robe rendered them strident and unimportant.

A final rustle of fabric, and the gaudy Archbishop robe slipped from his shoulders to gather around his ankles. The chilly mountain air did nothing to cool the sweat beading from his every pore, hot wet drops Shamir seemed determined to explore with her tongue: below his earlobes, between his shoulder blades, the nubs of his spine, the dimples in his lower back. Byleth shivered and gasped at each searing-hot flick of her tongue, praying and praying she’d touch—something else, somewhere, anywhere else, _fuck_ he was hard—

“Please,” he gasped when her index finger— _thank the Goddess, she’d stripped off her glove_ —rubbed inquisitively between his sac and his cock. Her thumb followed its trail up the thick vein under his shaft, and his hips jerked desperately into nothing.

“Quiet,” Shamir said again, more of a command this time. Byleth squeezed his eyes shut, teeth sinking into his bottom lip, and struggled to _obey_ as those cruel fingers teased unsatisfying lines up his sac, up his cock, dipped into—

“Now _stay_ quiet.”

—dipped into his slit, and Byleth had never struggled so violently against a direct order before. Shamir’s thumb and index finger collected his beading precum, smoothing and stroking it along his throbbing cock. Every inch of Byleth’s body trembled: from his goosebumped skin to his closed lips to his spine trapped against Shamir’s too-clothed breasts. Her other hand, still gloved, pressed against his sweat-drenched hip while she stroked him, faster and faster and refusing to let him chase his own pleasure in her insistent grip.

“Please,” he whispered again, quieter now, but Shamir still ignored him. He thrust into her hand harder, as if she hadn’t heard him, but no, she slowed her pace, slow and taunting. “Shamir,” he tried to order in his most demanding tone, but the name rolled off his tongue as a desperate, loud _moan_ instead.

The choral music outside finished its second hymn. Rustles and scuffles clacked on the stone as the faithful got to their knees at their pews.

“That was close,” Shamir said. She released his cock—Byleth nearly snarled, since yes, he _was_ —and pressed gentle kisses on his neck alternating with bruising sucks. “But we should give your mouth another task before the service ends. Just in case, you know? Archbishop’s gotta keep up appearances.”

Still shaking against the booth’s altar, Byleth managed to laugh. “Just in case,” he agreed. He pushed himself off the well-polished wood and turned around to face her. To his and his desperate, slick hard-on’s relief, Shamir let him. And thank the Goddess, but despite the evenness of her voice, her face revealed how frayed her composure really had become. Her eyes sparked black as flint, even in the low candlelight. Her chest heaved under the tightness of her bodice. And a gorgeous blush he was too polite to mention colored her sharp cheekbones and painted the slope of her neck all the way down to the tops of her breasts.

“You’re beautiful,” Byleth said, and Shamir’s lust-dark gaze narrowed into a glare. She shrugged off her jacket, baring muscled shoulders, and set her fingers to work unbuttoning her tight pants.

“Saying embarrassing crap like that gives me a better idea for what you can use your mouth for,” she said with the barest hint of a stammer. Byleth found himself shoved backwards onto the altar before he could even smile.

When she stepped out of her pants and— _had she not been wearing undergarments all day?—_ Byleth had a pretty good idea for his mouth’s use, too, although Shamir was, as ever, faster than him. He lay back on the altar a half-second before she swung her bare legs over his hips. His hands latched themselves onto the backs of her thighs just below her ass, and she let him pull her up his stomach, up his chest. Her slick dragged against him with each twitch of his fingers and twitch of his cock, and his mouth watered when she planted her palms on either side of his head. One callused hand digging into the altar, one black glove pinning a few strands of his hair.

Footsteps, shuffling, instruments retuning, sighs from bored believers. The third and final hymn started, the one before the sermon.

“You’re a solid strategist, Byleth,” Shamir murmured just above his head. “Do a good job being _quiet_ and I’ll let you ‘fuck me senseless’ right here. Good plan, _Professor_?”

Talking back wasn’t what his mouth’s _purpose_ was right now, wasn’t it? But giving her lip instead…

Byleth dug his fingers into Shamir’s ass, dragged her up until her knees caged his head, and buried his face between her legs.

Shamir immediately jerked forward even as she arched her back, but Byleth’s grip on her thighs held fast. His tongue lapped at her, flattening it to swipe up her seam from its lowest point to just under her soaked clit. Each tease against her entrance, the tip of his tongue flicking into her at random intervals, made her writhe against his mouth. But his hold was unforgiving and his hunger was ravenous and Byleth wanted to eat her alive.

Praises for Saint Macuil drowned out Shamir’s praises for Byleth. “Fuck, yes, that, right—higher, right there, _fuck_ yes, Byleth,” she hissed. She’d pressed her gloved fist against her mouth to muffle her cries, but Byleth had been listening for them ever since he’d begun fucking her with his tongue. He laughed against her—inside her—and the vibrations of his delight wrenched another poorly-concealed moan from Shamir’s lips.

“I love the sound of your voice,” Byleth said before giving her clit a filthy, noisy lick and a hard suck on its hood just so he could hear her praise him again and prove his point. “But you’re not quiet, either.”

“Enough,” Shamir panted. Her answering glare radiated power and false disdain. Byleth shut his eyes to hide, open his mouth to taste her better, and just the sight and touch and taste of her was enough for his cock to harden worse, better than before.

If he came before he’d finished her off, there would be more repercussions later. Byleth wasn’t sure if he’d mind, but he picked up his pace anyway, wet and loud and delicious in the best place to pray.

Shamir liked it intense: fast, frantic, fatiguing.

Shamir liked it hard: rough, passionate, desperate.

Byleth loved her so much.

“Ride my face,” he begged. “I’m—”

“Don’t come yet,” Shamir gasped. She tangled her hands in his hair and _shoved_ him against her, speeding up faster than his tongue could have handled. Byleth’s eyes snapped open to watch her, tongue flat at just the right angle for her to fuck his mouth on her own. His chin was almost as slick as her and he wanted more. “Just wait, just wait, j—just—”

Shamir’s nails scratched into his scalp, her spine arched gracefully, mouth open in a silent, ecstatic scream as she gushed into his mouth, onto his tongue, dripped down his chin. Byleth could hardly moan through it as his balls tightened and hot strands of cum splattered his legs, her thighs, the altar beneath them as he came. Untouched. Embarrassing. _Finally_. Shamir grinded against his lips, riding out her last tremors; somehow, Byleth found the strength to lick her through the rest.

The chorus outside ended on a lovely chord. For the first time since they’d entered, silence reigned in the cathedral.

Shamir and Byleth caught their breath, sweat and cum and lingering passion keeping their bodies entwined. “Well, you’ll have to fuck me senseless later,” Shamir huffed a laugh, bending down to lick a kiss into his mouth.

“Archbishop?” someone called outside. Their formerly-heated bodies froze. “Archbishop, do you have a sermon prepared?” The voice passed them by, searching, as Byleth prayed harder to the Goddess than he had even when She occupied his mind. “Can probably reuse last year’s,” the bishop grumbled eventually, and the footsteps retreated back to the main sanctuary.

Shamir, who had reluctantly begun to roll off Byleth’s body, found herself back on top, hips aligned with his and his half-hard cock. Her eyes widened as he grinded it against her, ignoring its sensitivity in favor of unclasping her bodice. “Seems Saint Macuil says I still don’t need my voice,” Byleth said with only a little smirk. He tossed the bodice aside and rolled both her nipples between his fingers. _Sweet revenge_. “I think I have His permission to fuck you senseless now anyway. _Quietly_.”

Shamir’s wide eyes darkened and narrowed once again, a smirk of her own matching his. She shifted and rubbed herself against him, glistening both with his cum and hers until his cock stood at full attention again and Byleth knew not to moan. “Put your money where your mouth is, Byleth,” she whispered. Shamir lifted her hips, Byleth sank inside her heat, and if Saint Macuil managed to hear His name moaned in a cathedral, Byleth hoped He understood it was a blessing.


End file.
